by Alan Mulak
Unfazed, Nicole continued to examine her makeup. “I do hope you are enjoying this. And that badge you were flashing around, don’t get too attached to it. There are words such as harassment and badgering that I’m sure you can’t spell…too many syllables…but will very soon become aware of their consequences. By the time my lawyer is done with you, you’ll be riding the back of a garbage truck.”
Hurst laughed. “Your lawyer? Bring him on. I could use a free lunch.”
Nicole took out her eye shadow case and prepared to touch up her eyelids. “What the fuck do you want?”
Hurst smiled. “At last, the sparring is over. That’s good. It’s getting cold out here.”
“Speak up, Asshole. You’ve got thirty seconds, and then I’m walking. If you follow me, I'll scream, and we'll let the Lexington Police take it from here."
Hurst looked around. “You know, that idea has merit. I’m sure the station will be more comfortable than Massachusetts Avenue in the light snow. Let’s see if I can find a cruiser.”
Nicole put away her makeup case and turned, looking Hurst in the face. “This is tiresome. What do you want?”
Hurst stopped smiling. He held Nicole’s gaze and without blinking, said, “I want you to know I believe you murdered your husband. You meticulously planned everything: the gas leak, the house explosion, timed it so it went off when hubby was working at home, jammed the gas lid down, everything. And maybe lover boy was in on it, too. And by the way, good job. Very thorough.”
Nicole cocked her head. “What have you been smoking? You and the rest of the Keystone Cops have already declared that entire incident an unfortunate accident. Period. End of story. Give it a rest, Asshole.”
“Nope,” Hurst said. “I won’t give it a rest, not until I nail your ass. Oh, you’re all full of bluster and bullshit now, but you’ll screw up…sooner or later…and when you do, I’ll be there.”
33
All In
The third major snowstorm of the winter concluded about mid-day on March fifteenth. Other than the New Year’s Eve storm, January and February had been just about snowless, spawning concern and tales of economic disaster by the local ski areas, but finally, the weather appeared to be changing. It had snowed heavily overnight and another storm was in the forecast.
After Alex had gone home from Lucy’s party, he took a shot in the dark, and at two P.M. local time – nine P.M. Bordeaux time - he had sent this text:
Anna, I am sorry for your loss. This is a new year. Is there any chance of us starting again? R
A day passed and Alex had almost given up before he received the following simple reply:
Please, let me grieve Jacque’s passing.
More than a bit disappointed, Alex tried to focus elsewhere and busied himself at the ranch. He volunteered to become the van driver for guests; getting them to and from nearby Telluride Ski Area. Not a bad job and the tips were unbelievable. Upon arrival, he would climb up on top of the van and hand his guests their skis and poles, and they would give him fives and tens. Then, he would do it again when they returned at the end of the day; and again, fives and tens. Alex stuffed the cash into an empty coffee can in his office. In one week, he had enough for a new fly rod. Plus, he found the passengers enjoyable. In the morning run to the mountain, they were all giddy with excitement and the ride was noisy. The return trip was just the opposite; they were quiet and spent. Often, his riders fell asleep. But for the most part, they were a happy group which Alex found a bit contagious.
Then, on February 10, Alex tried again to contact Anna. Same response. Same disappointment. More van service at the ranch to keep him from slipping into a black hole.
A few days later, Alex resorted to something he rarely did: he asked for help. Lucy and MacKenzie were helping Neil repaint the walls in the Brewery, which, much to the chagrin of the regulars, was closed for most of January and February as usual. Alex dropped by, picked up a paintbrush, and joined the fun. When the walls had been adequately covered and arms were tired, they all gathered around the bar for a nightcap.
Alex studied his paint-speckled hands and decided to dive right in. "Help," he said simply. "I need some help."
His three companions exchanged looks of surprise.
“Same topic as always,” Alex said. "But now, I need direction, and this time, I'll listen to what you say. Promise.”
Alex took out his phone and opened the screen with the recent text messages. He passed it around, and said, “Take a look. Am I way out of line here?” No one said anything. Alex continued. “I can’t keep waking up every day, anxiously checking my texts, then being crushed when there are no new messages. I know her husband just died, and Lord knows, that can’t be easy, but I think I need some kind of resolution. One way or the other, I need to know. What do you think?”
After a minute of silence, Neil said. “No, you’re not out of line, but I think you’re talking to the wrong people. I think you should repeat what you just said to Anna. But be prepared for the worst.”
MacKenzie looked at Neil, a look of wonder on her face. “Well said, I’m surprised.” Then turning to Alex, she said, “But this is way too soon. You need to let time pass.”
Alex asked, “How much time?”
MacKenzie shrugged. "If it were me, I'd want at least a year.”
A few days later, February 20, ignoring Mackenzie’s advice, Alex sent a different message:
I just turned fifty. If my memory serves me, you will turn forty-six in August. Time is passing. I acknowledge the terrible mistake I made in the past. Can’t we try again? If your answer is no, tell me and I will never contact you again. R.
It was March first when Alex received the following text:
I don’t know. Please forgive me but I need more time.
Alex studied the phone for a long time and then typed: Okay.
34
One Year Later
Alex pulled his truck into the driveway to his house. Belle, the dog, was there to greet him, dancing and prancing around with joy, waiting to be petted. Reaching into the glovebox, he extracted a dog biscuit and threw open the door.
“Sit,” commanded Alex.
Belle sat.
“Shake.”
Belle extender her left paw.
They shook.
Alex gave her the biscuit, saying, “You’ve got me well trained, Miss Belle.”
While she was chomping on her treat, he took his cross country skis and poles from the back on his pickup and stuck them in the snowbank.
The skiing at nearby Boggy Draw had been heavenly with six inches of fresh powder covering the base of about two feet. The track was smooth enough to kick and glide, but soft enough to cushion an accidental loss of balance and topple unceremoniously into the snow. Alex, being a native New Englander, had not yet mastered skiing in the Colorado deep snow and frequently fell. Nonetheless, when the snow was deep, he was out there every morning before the sun warmed the top layer, making it sticky and great for building snowmen, but not skiing.
Miss Belle came bounding back, hoping for seconds.
“Not today,” Alex said scratching her ear. “I’ve got to shower and get ready for work.”
Miss Belle’s ears drooped.
It was then his phone vibrated; an incoming text.
He dug through three layers of warm clothing and extracted his Samsung. It was from Anna!
I’ll be in Phoenix on March 12 thru 14, closing out some of Jacques’s accounts.
Alex was dumbfounded. The last communication they had had was his pleas to get together with her, which were rebuked as Anna said she needed more time.
That had been one year ago.
He reread her text; I’ll be in Phoenix on March 12 thru 14, closing out some of Jacques’s accounts.
Aloud, Alex said softly, “Why did she tell me that?”
His stomach tightened, and his pulse quickened.
He blinked many times, then, on the spot, he decided. He purchased a rou
nd-trip ticket, Phoenix to Durango, Frontier Airlines Flight number 381, arriving March 15, open departure date, and mailed it to Anna, registered mail, return receipt required. Five days later, the signed receipt arrived.
That evening, after a long day of ferrying skiers to and from the slopes, Alex dropped into the Brewery, and once again, Neil and Mackenzie and Lucy were there. They had been rehanging all the wall decorations and, as always, were enjoying a nightcap, admiring their work. Alex banged on the door, and Lucy climbed down off her bar stool, and let him in.
“Go away, we’re closed,” she said, opening the door wide. “And wipe your feet. I just washed the floor.
Alex gave her a hug and removed his boots. "Your wish is my command."
Lucy turned to the others. “This man needs a drink.”
They sat and chatted about nothing in particular. Lucy talked about plans for the upcoming wedding. Controlling the guest list was becoming a nightmare. Neil suggested they elope, saying, “That’s what I’d do,” but then shut his mouth when Mackenzie asked, “Given this some thought, have you?”
When it was Alex’s turn, he told them what he’d done with the airline ticket. No one said anything for a minute or two, and then Lucy broke the silence and asked, “What if she isn’t on the plane?”
"I've thought about that," Alex replied. "She either will or won't."
His three friends looked at him, all thinking…and then?
Alex said, “I’ve waited long enough. If she chooses to fly back to France, and not use the ticket I sent, then that will do it. It’ll be over, for good.”
Alex sat in the waiting area of Durango Airport, watching the snowplows, lights flashing, wrapping up their task. All morning long, flights – incoming and outgoing – had been indefinitely delayed. Airport officials had said that as soon as the snow stopped, they would plow the runway and flight service would resume – and they were correct. Now, Frontier Airlines Flight 381from Phoenix was on the ground and taxiing toward the gate.
Alex stood, unable to sit any longer. He felt his pulse quicken as a twin-engine aircraft, Frontier Airline flight 381, taxied up to the waiting gate. Flurries were still falling, but now, more of a nuisance than a concern. The gate attendant came over and stood beside Alex, watching the airplane approach.
Alex glanced at the man, and then was struck with an idea.
“Is this plane full?” Alex asked.
The attendant checked his clipboard. “Yep.”
“No empty seats?”
He checked again. “Nope. Full flight.”
Then the attendant asked, “Waiting for someone special?”
Alex massaged the back of his neck and looked at the man standing next to him. “Yes, I am.”
The End
Afterword
The genesis of my book was twofold. First, some years ago, a dear friend went through a horrible divorce. During this journey, he seriously considered “hitting the road.” So much so that he contacted a person who specializes in such things. As my friend shared the details of his proposed disappearance, I was fascinated. First, I was surprised there are people who do this for a living. I suppose, there are those who consult on anything and everything, but this truly surprised me. And by the way, my friend did not “hit the road.” I wish I could say he lived happily ever after, but he did not. Two years ago, he died a lonely and broken man. It makes one wonder how his life would have played out if he would have taken the road less travelled.
The second inspiration for my tale was a story told by another friend, of a chance meeting with a former lover. It apparently did not go well and raised anger and other unresolved issues. This has not happened to me but certainly fired my curiosity to the point where I interviewed many friends and associates, asking them if they’d had a similar experience. The results of my research were nearly unanimous and could be boiled down to the following; uncomfortable, unnerving, and resurrecting past events that they thought were long forgotten.
Blending these two ideas together, Reboot was born.
A word about people and places. With one exception, the people are all made up. Any resemblance to real people was coincidental and unintentional. The only real person in the book is me. I’m the tall guy with the Boston Red Sox ball cap who is fishing with his grandson. That’s me!
Places? The Dolores River Brewery is real. Their craft beers are terrific. I’m especially fond of the ESB and Snaggletooth. Their pizza is tasty as well. And the Upper and Lower Dolores River are great trout streams, especially when there’s a snow pack up in the mountains.
Now, if you see me there, out in the middle of the river, give a wave. I’d welcome the opportunity to find a shady spot to sit and chat.
Otherwise, I made up everything else.
Acknowledgments
Reboot has been in the works, off and on, for at least ten years. Often a spurt of inspiration came from words of encouragement offered by a reader. Thank you! Done at last.
There are many people to whom I owe a huge debt of gratitude, and I would be remiss not to mention them here and again, say thank you. In no particular order, let’s start with my Florida readers; Gina Passini, Mary Micolites, and my daughter Michelle Mulak. Your insights and comments were terrific, as was the beer we drank together while meeting to discuss Reboot.
My neighbors Mary Weaver and Scot and Leslie Campbell also plowed through my manuscript and came up with some gems to add – as well as some duds to remove. Thank you!
Daughter Jennifer Adams also read Reboot and took the time to provide valuable feedback, especially regarding the scenes that took place in her backyard southwest Colorado. Thanks!
Then there’s my longtime pal Dr. Phil Tavano, who offered insight when needed on medical issues and gave advice regarding the ghoulish sections of the book. Thanks, Phil!
And of course, there are my writing pals who also got tapped to give my script a read and offer critique: Andrea Long, Marcy Abbott, Sue Pascucci, Donna Smith, and Michele Williams. You guys are great.
Tom Carter and Dave Daniel, who’ve read most everything I’ve ever writer, also read and provided great feedback.
My life long fly-fishing pal, Mike Tenbus, was undoubtedly a contributor, if in no other way, by just listening to my ruminations and musings. Thanks, Mike.
And last, but not least, encouragement, my wife Ann who has read, and re-read every word. And patiently steered me in the right directions and most importantly, provided constant support and. I am and will continue to be forever grateful.
About the Author
Alan Mulak was born in 1950 in Springfield, Massachusetts, went to engineering college in near Boston, and spent most of his adult life wanting to be a writer. Now, retired from his professional engineering business, he is blissfully pounding away at the keyboard, living his dream.
When not writing, Mr. Mulak spends much free time fly fishing for anything that swims, snowshoeing through deep powder, and when spring arrives, trying to hit a softball. He splits his time between South Carolina and Colorado, where he and his wife Ann enjoy their daughters, grandsons, and friends.
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Books by Alan Mulak
Good Intentions, Wrong Directions
The Innkeeper and other Short Stories
Discussion Questions
As a young lad in junior high school, some of my textbooks – geography, and history if I recall – had sections in the rear of each chapter, entitled something like "Topics for Further Study.” These were a series of question about the material covered in the preceding chapter, designed to inspire and encourage the student to dig deeper into these topics. I remember thinking, "Who in their right mind would want to do this?" There were scores of far more interesting items to ‘ponder,' such as baseball, fishing, and some of the girls who sat close by. Nonetheless, many textbooks came equipped with such questions.
Now, a half-century later, here I am writing such a section for my book. In the unlikely circumstance you decide to use my book as the focus of a group discussion, the following are suggested discussion points.
Have you ever come face to face with a former lover? How did it go?
My book was about a character that chose to restart his life, rather than go down that horrible road of abandonment, divorce, and bankruptcy. If faced with the same set of circumstances, would you have done the same?